


for better, for worse

by kiira



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: !!!!! :) !!!!!, F/F, Fake Married AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7139951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiira/pseuds/kiira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'new mission, sweetie,' root chirps, and flashes the ring on her finger at you</p><p>aka</p><p>root and shaw have to be married For The Mission™ and the mets lose every baseball game they play</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You slide into the car, ready to yell at Reese for pulling you out of your stakeout without an explanation. Instead, you find Root, glancing up at you from under a pair of enormous sunglasses, somehow managing to make drinking a coffee look seductive.

You slide out of the car.

“Wait, Sameen,” Root starts, and you slam the door shut and begin to walk away. She _of course_ follows you in the car, creeping along at a snail’s pace. There are three taxis and a bus honking behind her before you give up and stop. She rolls down the window and smiles.

“New mission, sweetie,” she chirps, and flashes the ring on her finger at you.

You make her hold up traffic for two more blocks before you get in the car.

/

“Married, Root?” you ask her flatly, and she smiles happily.

“It was either me and you or you and Harold. I thought our chemistry was a little more convincing.”

“Why,” and it’s more of a question for yourself than for her, questioning every choice you’ve made that led you to this specific point in time, with Root shoving a box with a matching ring to the one on her finger at you.

She decides to answer anyways.

“Well, sweetie, neither you or the monkey have the … technical knowledge for this job, so it was either me or Harold. And according to Her, I needed backup on this one. With Reese busy with his little police charade, the only choice was you.”

“Harold’s free.”

“Yes, but She wanted me with someone who could actually aim a gun. So, Sameen, it’s really only you.”

You shove the ring on your finger, and glare out the window until Root stops talking. Her reasoning is convoluted, but _logical_ and that’s what pisses you off the most.

/

“Ms Liskov?”

The building has a fucking _doorman_ , and Root digs her nails into your hip before she schools a pretty smile into place and floats into the building.

“Yes, Jake, was it? I’m _terribly_ bad at names, do forgive me. Have all of my boxes arrived?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looks at you, slightly confused. “You didn’t mention a roommate, Ms Liskov.”

“Oh no,” and Root punctuates her speech with a light, fake laugh. It pisses you off. “No, this is my wife, Ada,” and she wiggles her left hand at him.

You’re seconds away from killing her.

She elbows you in the ribs, and you give the man a smile. It’s not a _nice_ smile, objectively, but you don’t actually want to be here.

“I’m so sorry, Jake, but we really must be going. Have to set up the new apartment and all!” Root laughs, high and fake again, and guides you to the elevator.

“Now,” she says once the doors have closed, “that wasn’t so hard, was it Ada?”

You ignore her. You’ve decided that’s the best way of dealing with Root.

“What’s the mission?”

“Oh,” she pouts, looking slightly disappointed. “Only married me for the mission?”

That doesn’t merit an answer.

“Fine,” she huffs, and pulls out her phone. “Her name’s Chloe Dhinsa,” she says, showing you a photo of a young woman, dark hair and dressed in scrubs, “she’s a pediatric oncologist at Mount Sinai. She and her husband, Alex,” and Root flicks to a photo of man, holding up some kind of trophy and beaming at the camera, “are active members of an infertility support group.”

She smiles at you.

“No,” you whisper, knowing where this is going.

“There’s a meeting tomorrow––Grace and Ada Liskov have been trying to get pregnant for almost six months now. Grace is _quite_ an active member in online support groups.”

“And _this_ was the only option?”

“Of course not, Sameen,” and she reaches down to squeeze your hand. “But, isn’t this so much more fun?”

/

The apartment is decorated like a library, and screams Harold from every surface, including the three floor to ceiling bookcases.

Especially the three floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

Other things you know are Root’s doing, but mostly the one bedroom. And the inevitable one bed.

“I don’t do sleepovers, Root,” you say, with a glare at the bedroom.

“I thought so. That’s why I got the couch.”

You glance over at the small sitting area: there’s a couch that could _maybe_ fit two people, if one was practically sitting on the other.

“Oops,” Root shrugs.

/

You’re still taking the couch.

/

You’re also evidently the one cooking dinner, because you walk out of the bathroom to Root frantically running around and opening all the window, something that could have _maybe_ once been chicken in a pan.

“I ate a lot of Kraft mac-and-cheese as a kid,” she explains, “a lot of takeout now.”

“Move,” you say to her, practically shoving her out of the kitchen. Victimless arson is fine with you. Accidentally burning down a building with hundreds of people in it isn’t. “I’m making hamburgers, don’t come in here.”

“Bossy,” Root raising her eyebrows at you.

You ignore her. You’re sensing a pattern.

/

Dinner passes uneventfully. Root manages to make eating a hamburger sexual, but you were expecting worse. She takes tiny, even sips of her wine, and keeps up a steady chatter, something about Atlanta and a shipment of submachine guns.

You mostly tune it out; Reese had already told you most of this story, and Root’s parts involve more computer jargon than you’re prepared to figure out.

After dinner, Root’s clearing the table while you flip through channels on TV, stopping at the Mets game. They’re losing 9-0, and it’s only the bottom of the second. It’s almost amusing, and you toss the remote next to you, content to watch the inevitable disaster unfold.

“Ooh, baseball!” Root exclaims, practically in your ear. She leans further over the back of the couch, her hair tickling the top of your shoulders. “Football was bigger where I’m from.”

She stands there for over an inning, elbows digging into the back of the couch.

You annoyingly can’t focus on the game. Root’s hair keeps _brushing_ against your neck, and you dig your nails into your palm, concentrating on the dull pressure.

“You can sit,” you say as the fourth inning begins, watching the batter swing once, twice, then a hard line drive to center field.

“What?” Root breathes, sounding terribly hopeful, and the batter rounds second base.

“You can sit,” you repeat, not sure if you hate the way Root’s voice almost caught.

There’s a pop-up out, a single, and a walk before Root comes around the couch and sits next to you. For all her incessant flirting, she’s surprisingly quiet.

You were right earlier. The couch isn’t meant to hold much more than two children, and Root ends up half on your lap. After some silent shifting, your leg end up practically draped over Root’s, her hip digging into you. She’s all angles, bony and sharp.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you warn.

“I know, Sam.”

/

You drag a quilt and two of the pillows out to the living room, and look angrily at your bed. It’s fucking _small_ , and you’ll have to curl up to fit.

“You sure you don’t wanna share, Sam?” She’s dressed in what looks like silk pajamas, because of _course_ Root has silk pajamas. She probably stole them, you decide after a minute. She definitely stole them.

“I’m going to sleep, Root.”

“The door’s open, darlin’,” and she flips her braid over her shoulder before disappearing from the doorway.

/

It’s 3:30 in the morning, and your legs are cramping up. You’ve gone through hours of torture resistance training back with the ISA, and you’ve gone through worse than this.

But, usually during torture sessions, there isn’t a bed yards away. A bed large enough that you wouldn’t even have to _touch_ Root. And you wake up early, much earlier than Root.

And you’ve convinced yourself.

Root’s fast asleep, and you lie next to her, on top of the covers.

Breathe in, out. Make sure your breathing doesn’t match hers.

/

You wake up at 6 and go for a forty minute run. The doorman smiles as you walk back in, sweaty and glaring.

“Good morning, Ms Liskov. How’s your new home?”

“What?”

You need to stop letting Root name the cover identities. You’re not sure, but you’re pretty sure she named both of you after some computer science shit.

“Your new home, Ms Liskov. How is it?”

“Fine,” you grunt at him, and stalk to the elevator.

/

When you woke up, Root was curled towards you, her braid falling out.

/

“Ms Shaw?”

Finch buzzes in your ear, sounding like he’s worried he’s interrupting something.

“What?”

“I’ve been doing some digging, and you may want to exercise some caution.”

“They dangerous?”

“No, but they may have some … very dangerous people after them. I believe they may have gotten mixed up with Bratva through an adoption fraud scheme.”

Root’s half a block ahead of you, but you know she’s listening. Somehow, her machine is in everything, constantly whispering in her ear.

“Ada!” She singsongs, “hurry up, we don’t want to be late! And Harry, we’re both carrying at least two guns. We’re good.”

/

The meeting goes just about as horribly as you expect: Root does almost all the talking, telling a long story about how you’ve always _dreamed_ of having children, and you don’t know where to turn, and the online community has just been an anchor for the both of you.

You just turn your mouth down and stare at your hands. Everyone makes sympathetic noises, and you feel itchy, uncomfortable.

Three women start to cry, and Root manages to tear up a little. You stare at your hands harder, focusing on not leaving, not blowing your cover.

After it’s over, Root decides that you need to mingle, need to get close to the number.

“I know exactly what you’re going through,” someone taps you on your shoulder. Your hand inches to your gun as you turn, but it’s Chloe Dhinsa, her eyes wide and sympathetic.

“Mhm,” you mutter, and Root slides up behind you, looping her arm around your waist.

“This community has really been a lifeline for us, isn’t that right, Ada?”

You nod, wishing this mission had less confessional sessions and more shooting.

“Oh, it’s been the same for my husband and me. We’re actually right in the middle of adoption proceedings, right Alex?”

“A little girl from Russia.”

“Russia?” Root tilts her head up, and you know her machine is muttering in her ear. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Not if you know the right people,” Chloe says, and then laughs, the same high, fake laugh Root’s been performing. “Well, enough about us! Did you two just move here?”

“No,” you say, just as Root nods.

The Dhinsas look confused, and you curse yourself for not cementing the cover.

“What Ada means, is that we lived here after college together. We had to move back home to help take care of Ada’s mother, but now we’re back,” Root smiles disarmingly, and you can see the sympathy fill up Chloe’s eyes again.

“Oh, Ada, I’m so sorry. Is your mother doing better now?”

“She died,” you say shortly, and stomp out of the room.

You can hear Root making apologies for you, something about how you’re still “trying to process grief” and how she needs to go make sure you’re okay.

“That wasn’t _funny_ , Sam,” she says once she’s caught up with you but you can see her trying not to smile. “The Dhinsas probably think you killed your mother or something.”

“Good.”

“Sa _meen_ ,” Root almost whines, and you know she’s pouting.

“This,” and you shove your fucking _ring_ into her face, “was unnecessary.”

Root links her arm with yours and you make a threatening grumbling noise in the back of your throat. She looks at you fondly, and you dig your elbow into her ribs.

She keeps smiling, and you don’t hate it.

/

“So, Sameen, when did we first have sex?”

“What.”

“We have to get our covers down,” and she drapes herself across the couch. You slide out from under her and sit on the floor.

“Never. We’ve never had sex.”

“We’re married, sweetie,” she says, that stupid condescending tone, the one where she sticks out her lower lip and tilts her head to look at you from under her eyelashes.

“I’m a born-again Christian and don’t believe in sex,” and you turn up the volume on the baseball game.

“We both know that isn’t true, darling,” dripping innuendo off of every word.

You turn the game up louder.

Root rests her foot against your shoulder, and somehow manages to keep her mouth shut until the game ends. She grabs the remote from you as soon as the last inning finishes, and flips to a show with 100 percent more wedding dresses than you ever wanted to see.

“Give me the remote, Root.”

She’s pouting––you’re not looking at her, but you know she’s pouting.

“Don’t you ever dream of a happily ever after, Sameen?”

You’ve discovered that most of what Root says doesn’t deserve the mental power to think of an answer. You’ve also discovered that despite the perfect aim while listening to her machine, normal Root’s reflexes don’t even rival your own. It’s easy to jump up, pin her to the couch and grab the remote.

You’re _not_ watching Say Yes to the Dress.

Root also makes it clear that she’s not watching Paranormal Activity 2 when she gets her machine to change the channel for her.

You silently agree on some crappy procedural show, and you haven’t moved from the couch.

“Three dates,” you tell Root after the show ends.

She looks vaguely confused, and it’s a new look on her. Root rarely doesn’t know what’s going on, and you like it.

“When we first had sex. Three dates.”

Root looks somewhere between shocked and pleased.

“That a promise, Sameen?”

You stand up and ignore her: you’re not spending another (half) night on the couch.

/

When you wake up for your morning run, Root’s curled next to you. She didn’t have the decency to sleep on top of the quilt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha i cant write combat scenes lol

Root had evidently given Chloe her phone number, or at least given her Grace Liskov’s number, because when you get back from bugging the secure rooms of the hospital she works at, Root’s standing at the door, dressed in a dark red dress.

“There’s a dress for you in the closet, and hurry. We’re going to be late. Chloe and Alex have invited us to a little dinner party at their apartment in fifteen minutes.” She glances upwards, and corrects herself, “Thirteen minutes.”

The dress fits you perfectly, and you’re not sure if that’s Root or her machine. You’re not sure which one you prefer.

When you walk back out, Root’s eyes linger on you for a second too long, somewhere between lust and hunger.

“Eyes up, Root,” you snap, and she just smiles slowly.

“Remember, darling, you have to keep this cover intact. Try not to kill anyone, _please._ ”

You grumble in agreement, and Root presses herself up against your back as she struggles with the clasp on her heels. You can feel the outline of a gun strapped to her thigh.

Fucking hypocrite.

/

The dinner party is not _little_ . The Dhinsas probably invited the whole building, and Chloe squeals when she sees you. She’s definitely on her way to drunk, and you definitely want to be anywhere but here. Root places her hand on the back of your neck, and _digs_ her nails in, forcing you to walk forward.

“Chloe,” you say, hoping you sound more excited than in pain.

She throws her arms around your neck––you do _not_ like to be touched and you’re going to kill Root. Preferably extremely painfully.

“Ada! Grace! I’m _so_ glad you could come, do either of you want a drink?” Before you can answer ( _yes_ , God yes) she’s dragging you to a bar set up in the corner of her living room, and pressing some terribly fruity thing on you. You’re going to drink it anyways.

You’ve also decided on something involving knives for Root’s death.

/

It’s been nearly an hour and a half, and Root is still involved in a conversation with a man who could be Finch’s long lost twin. You heard the words “java” and “logic gates” and you angrily sat down on the couch, mentally going through the arsenal sitting in your fridge at home. At minute twenty-seven, Root’s still going strong and you begin going through John’s arsenal in the subway station.

By minute sixty-eight, you’ve found the Dhinsa’s dog.

Fuck Root.

/

It’s _late_ and you’re tired and you’re really considering going into the Dhinsa’s bedroom and going to sleep. Root’s disappeared, giggling to some PTA mom, or a banker, or you _really_ don’t care.  

You rub the dog’s stomach, and he makes a satisfied noise. Maybe you could talk Root into letting your cover identities get a pet.

/

“Ada!” Root exclaims from halfway across the room, and half stumbles half runs to you.

“Are you _drunk_ , Root?” You hiss into her ear as soon as she’s close enough. She just give you a very sober, very disparaging look.

She loops her arms around your neck, and you’re a half second away from ducking out of the embrace when she presses her mouth up against your ear. For second, it feels like she’s sucking on your ear, and you begin to think of the two dozen ways you’ve discovered to kill her in this room alone, but then she starts to whisper.

Leave it to Root to fucking press her whole body against yours to get a message across.

“I’m breaking into the Dhinsas’ study. We need the information on their contact from the adoption agency, who can hopefully lead us to whoever is threatening Chloe from inside Bratva.” She takes a breath and smiles against your ear––you know you’re going to hate whatever comes out of her mouth next. “I need you to distract Chloe. Small talk, or just listen to her and nod occasionally.”

You make a growling noise in the back of your throat and Root fucking _kisses_ your cheek.

“Thanks, babe!” She chirps, winking at you.

At least, she tries to wink. It’s somewhere in between blinking and furrowing her brow and you’re going to give her shit for it tomorrow.

“Ada!”

And it’s Chloe, and it’s too late to run back to the safety of the dog in the corner.

“Ada, where did your lovely wife go? We were having … we were talking,” and Chloe’s giggling. “Bathroom,” you answer shortly, trying to smile.

“Oh! Well, since you’re here, Grace and I were just talking about the preschools in the area. She seems to think that I should get on a waiting list as soon as possible, but I thought it would be better to wait until the kid actually _gets_ here from Russia.”

You nod.

Chloe frowns a little. “Who are you agreeing with?”

You nod again, and then realize what Chloe wants. “Um… you?”

Chloe smiles wide, and starts talking again. “I _knew_ it! Grace is lovely, very nice, but she’s a little intense, isn’t she?”

You nod again. Talking to Chloe is like talking to Root: you can ignore two-thirds of what they’re saying and focus on more important things. Like literally anything else. You catch the words “child-proofing” and “RIE parenting” and smile whenever Chloe glances at you.

“So you want to borrow the book? It’s just in my study, I can go grab it right now.”

You nod before completely processing what she says.

“You’re going to love it,” Chloe coos, “ _Baby Knows Best_ completely changed my thinking on parenting. Let me just check with Alex that he’s done reading it.”

“ _Root_ ,” you hiss as soon as Chloe turns to find her husband, hoping she has her earpiece in. “Root, get out of there.”

For what’s probably the first time in her life, Root’s silent.

You check that Chloe isn’t watching you, and slip out of the living room, around a corner and into the study, where Root is hunched over the computer.

“Number’s coming,” you say, and Root almost jumps.

You snicker at her surprised expression, and she pretends she didn’t almost squeak in surprise, focusing on the computer.

“The download isn’t done yet, Sam. Go distract Chloe.”

Except, you can hear footsteps in the hallway, and your last attempt at distraction failed miserably.

So you do the only thing you can think of, dragging Root out from behind the desk, shoving her up against the bookcases and kissing her. She makes a strangled noise before kissing you back. She’s biting your lip and digging her nails into the muscle on your back when Chloe opens the door.

“Oh my!” Chloe squeaks, and you pull away from Root, carefully not looking at her. Chloe’s got her hand over her eyes, and it’s too dark to see, but you know her cheeks are bright red. “I’m so sorry!” She gasps, and shuts the door quickly. “I’ll get the book for you another time, Ada,” and you can hear her practically running down the hall.

Root’s eyes are bright when you look back at her, and she looks like she’s going to lean down to kiss you again when the computer makes a quiet dinging noise.

“Download’s done,” she breathes, not moving from where you have her pinned against the wall. You realized slowly that you have your hand around her neck, and you snatch it back, step away.

“I’m leaving,” but Root grabs your wrist before you can stalk out of the room.

“I’ve got the keys, babe,” and her flirting has never sounded this _soft_ before and it makes you itch with things you can’t put your finger on. You fix your dress––it’s bunched up in places, and you can feel half-moon marks from Root’s fingernails––and wait for her.

When Root drags you out of the Dhinsas’ apartment, Chloe gives you a knowing smile. You’re too exhausted to explain to her that it _really_ isn’t what it looks like, that Root’s got a flashdrive with all of Chloe’s personal files tucked––you don’t actually know where she put it, and you decide with more trouble than you expected that you don’t want to know either.

/

It’s nearly 2am when you get back to your apartment––to Grace and Ada Liskov’s apartment, you remind yourself.

The TV offerings are crap at 2am, Root chooses for you between infomercials and reruns of Friends by having her machine stop for you. You would have chosen Friends too, but Root’s too engaged in whatever’s on her laptop to really talk to you.

Not that you mind.

The couch is still tiny, Root’s legs are stretched out across yours, her ankles crossed on the couch’s arm. You would go to sleep, leave Root alone to the vaguely green light of the TV and her machine, but you want to be the first to know if she finds anything.

“Contact’s name is Anna Yegorova,” she finally whispers. You pretend you aren’t almost asleep. “I’m going to let Her do a background check.”

She shuts her laptop and gently puts it onto the floor next to the couch. She’s got that slightly blank look she gets when she’s talking with her machine, somewhere between adoration and concentration.

“She says preliminary check pulls nothing, but Yegorova may be an alias. We can check that tomorrow.”  

“Mhm,” you mumble, and Root stands up, accidentally kicking your shin in the process. She silently offers you a hand, and you don’t let go as you follow her into the bedroom.

“It doesn’t mean anything, Sam,” she whispers, reminding herself or reminding you or something in between.

“I can’t––” and you flutter your fingers between the two of you.

“I know,” she says, and you fall asleep under the sheet this time, your feet pressed against Root’s legs.

/

You wake up later than you usually do, and Root’s watching you when you open your eyes.

“That’s creepy,” you grumble, and roll out of the bed.

She just makes a small noncommittal noise and stretches out across the whole bed. “You wanna check out this Anna Yegorova while She helps me gain access to Bratva communication networks?”

“Why she?”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you call your machine she?”

Root smiles, not her usual manic ‘we’re all about to die’ smile, but a tiny crooked one, and her eyes are soft as she looks at you.

“She asked me to. I didn’t ask Her why.”

“Oh,” you say, because it’s not the answer you expected. To you, Root’s machine is the same one that directed you in the ISA, the distant voice who gave directions and numbers, silent on everything else. Anything else. It’s not though, you realize. Root’s machine is somewhere closer to alive.

“You talk to it––her? You can have a conversation with your machine?”

“Of course,” Root breathes, close enough to reverence to unnerve you. “Our relationship is…” she trails off, pressing her hand behind her ear.

“Oh,” and you clear your throat. You really don’t want to know about Root’s robot girlfriend, or what they do together. “Well, I’m going to … I’m going to go check up on the contact from the adoption agency.”

“Don’t you want breakfast first, Sameen?”

You do, but Root’s making you feel angry or hot or too big for your skin, and you just want to leave. And you wouldn’t ever want to eat anything Root’s cooked, not even if you were starving and she was the last person left on earth.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you say shortly, and shut the door gently behind you.

/

“Natalie Medvedow,” you say, glaring at the woman at the front desk. “Russian Consulate, I’m here to investigate claims of adoption fraud.”

“I.D?” The woman asks, almost bored.

You flash her the badge you had found in your wallet after leaving the apartment. Root’s omnipresence is slightly unnerving, and you need to have a talk with her about personal boundaries. Again.

“Ma’am, I asked who you were here to see.”

“Anna Yegorova,” and the woman carefully makes her face blank.

“The woman by that name no longer works here. Have a nice afternoon, Ms Medvedow.”

“Can you tell me why she was … terminated?”

“No ma’am,” but she’s looking somewhere to the left of you. You glance over––an office, maybe.

“No problem–– what’s your name?”

“Karly, I’m Karly.”

“No problem then, Karly. It’s just,” and you channel Root and her pout and baby deer eyes. “It’s just that my boss is really intense and if I don’t get this back to him as soon as possible, I’m so screwed. Anything, really, anything you can tell me.”

Karly glances over at the office again, and then leans up over the desk she’s sitting at.

“But you didn’t hear it from me,” she starts, and waits for you to make a grunt of agreement. ”The director of the agency discovered that Anna had _mob ties_. Anna wasn’t even her real name.” Karly’s eyes go wide and dramatic, and you briefly consider taking the phone number she’s trying to subtly pass you.

But then Root buzzes in your ear, and you almost entirely forget about Karly.

“I need to show you something, sweetie. ”

You don’t respond to her, but you give Karly a forced, closed-lip smile, and walk out. You probably should have thanked her, but it’s too late for that now, and she didn’t really give you anything of use, nothing Root wouldn’t have found.

/

You slam the apartment door behind you, and Root’s sitting on the kitchen table, her laptop balanced precariously on her knees.

“Our Miss Yegorova has an _illustrious_ criminal career. She––”

“You left the front door unlocked,” you interrupt.

Root just shrugs and taps a few keys on her keyboard, about to start talking again.

“What if I was Bratva, for fuck’s sake?”

She picks up the gun that’s sitting next to her and dangles it out. “Plus, Sameen, I have you to protect me.”

“I was––” you stop, because no part of you actually wants to continue this conversation. You grab the chair that Root is resting her ankles on, and pull it out from under her. She glares at you when her laptop nearly falls off her knees.

Serves her right.

“What did you find about Yegorova?”  
“Volkova. Arina Volkova,” and Root flips around her computer so you can see a photo of the woman. A mugshot.

Fantastic.

“She’s wanted by Interpol for human smuggling, specifically the smuggling of infants and young children from former Soviet states to Bratva leadership in Moscow, to be adopted illegally by foreigners.”

“And how does the number fit into all this?”

“Well, despite Chloe’s nonchalance about the whole ordeal the other day, she and her husband were suspicious of the adoption agency from that Volkova fronted, and called their lawyer, who not only stopped all adoption proceedings, but called in a tip to the organized crime department of the FBI. Anyway, Bratva got wind of it, and called out a hit squad on Chloe and her husband.”

“Killing the witnesses,” you say, and Root nods.

“We had about 12 minutes before they got to Chloe’s house, so I invited them over here for coffee.”

“You what.”

Root smiles and there’s a knock at the door.

“That’s either our guests or Bratva,” she chirps, and goes to open the door, her gun behind her back.

If she’s not killed by Russian mobsters, you’re going to do it for them.

/

Twenty-two minutes into coffee, and Bratva hasn’t shown yet. Chole’s picking up on how jumpy Root is, but she somehow hasn’t noticed the gun you have under the table, pointing at the door.

“Is everything all right, Grace?”

Root nods, tense, and you know she’s having all of the camera feeds reported into her head by her machine.

“Well, Alex and I went to the most _wonderful_ couple’s yoga class. We can give you the address if the two of you are interested,” Chloe glances between you.

Root nods again, but this time it’s to you, short and sharp. “Feeds are down,” and Chloe looks mostly confused.

“Take this,” you say shortly and press a gun into Chloe’s hand. “You and Alex go into the bedroom, don’t come out, no matter what you hear.”

You shove them into the room before they really have a chance to react.

“Couldn’t have explained it a bit, dear?” Root asks, tossing you the gun you keep hidden in the fruitbowl.

“No,” and there’s someone knocking on the door.

/

There are six Bratva hitmen, and you know that they weren’t expecting a fight. Root takes one down immediately, kneecapping him with one of Harold’s approved methods.

You take down two more; they’re bleeding all over kitchen floor and Root smiles at you. Her eyes are bright and slightly wild.

“We works so well together, Sameen.”

She’s a match for you when she’s in god mode, deadly accurate and just the right amount of reckless.

“I’m here for the mission, _Root_ ,” and you shoot the hitman who has his gun aimed at Root’s back.

Kill shot.

Root smiles, hard and sharp. “Whatever you say, sweetie.”

There’s still two men, and Root chooses to flirt at the most inopportune times. You take down one, knocking his gun out of his hand and then hitting him hard in the side of his head. He crumples to the ground, and when you turn around, Root’s got the other man on the ground, his gun under the kitchen table.

“We should do this more often,” she singsongs. She smudges her fingers against your jaw, and you freeze.

“You had a little––”and she doesn’t move her hand.

 _Fuck it,_ you think, because Root looks high on adrenaline, and somewhere between listening to her machine and looking at you. You have to stand on your tiptoes to kiss her, and if you weren’t biting down _hard_ on Root’s lip, the height difference would bother you.

She pulls your hair out of its ponytail, twisting her fingers into it. You know she’s smiling slightly against your mouth, and you hate this kind of stuff, but you let her do it for a couple seconds.  

Unfortunately, that’s when Chloe and Alex start to knock on the door separating you from them.

“Is it safe to come out?” Chloe says, and she sounds like she’s about to cry.

Root makes an angry noise in the back of her throat, and you push her off. Chloe peeks her head around the doorframe a second later, and you fully know that you look like you’ve been kissing.

“You’re dead,” you tell them. “Congratulations.”

Root’s not trying to hide how pissed off she is, handing them each a folder. “Here are your new identities. Disappear, and try not to have any more international criminal organizations put out hits on you.”

/

Root calls in a tip to NYPD from a pay phone outside, making her voice sound young and scared as she sobs about hearing gunshots in the apartment above hers.

As soon as she hangs up, she crowds you against the brick wall of the building.

“Harold isn’t expecting us back for another,” she tips her head up, her machine calculating in her ear. “For another three hours. Whatever will we do, Mrs Liskov?”

You shoulder her off of you.  
“I’m starving. You’re paying.”

Root smiles, and entwines her fingers with yours.

You let her hold your hand for two blocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> their cover identities are named for grace hopper, ada lovelace and barbara liskov
> 
>  
> 
> be my friend @ rootsmachine.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> there were two more Baseball scenes and i cut them bc a) i dont like baseball and b) ?? why the fuck did i write this ???
> 
> also: srry if i cant write these characters im not great at it yet & come hang out @ rebeccaasutter.tumblr.com


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